


Bit of A Dance

by hauntedjaeger (saellys)



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Bathtub Sex, Competence Porn, F/M, Nonverbal Communication, Rain Fight, act three
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-02
Updated: 2017-09-02
Packaged: 2018-12-23 00:42:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11978502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saellys/pseuds/hauntedjaeger
Summary: She will never tire of how much they can say to each other without words:Please, be my guest and kill this slaver. Or,We hold this point and none shall pass us. Or,Isabela is cheating again. More recently, a library of variations onI love you.And now,No blade? No problem.





	Bit of A Dance

It’s late, and raining in Hightown. At first Hawke and Fenris clung to overhangs and awnings on their way home, but after the long stairs up from Lowtown there was little point. Now, bedraggled and yet somehow still dignified, they cross the glossed cobbles of a courtyard. Hawke is engrossed in the way raindrops follow the path of lyrium on Fenris’s arms. In retrospect, that’s probably why she doesn’t hear the others approach.

Fenris halts in a ready stance, and Hawke manages to not trip over him. Ozone prickles in her nostrils--whether it’s from the storm or his markings, she can’t say.

There are eight shadows in the rain, surrounding them. “Wise folk travel with a blade after dark,” says a voice from inside a cowl.

This lot must be among the wisest. Something jabs in the small of Hawke’s back, through the leather jerkin. She glances behind to find a broad-tipped spear. The speaker has a staff, but the others carry axes, shortswords, and unmarked shields.

And improbably, they seem to have no idea who they’re menacing.

Were she a bit younger, with things to prove still, she might answer with a quip. The years have taught her the value of a measured word. Instead, her eyes find Fenris’s. She will never tire of how much they can say to each other without words: _Please, be my guest and kill this slaver._ Or, _We hold this point and none shall pass us_. Or, _Isabela is cheating again_. More recently, a library of variations on _I love you_.

And now, _No blade? No problem._

Hawke holds her hands out like this is an ordinary mugging, and then unties the purse full of her Wicked Grace winnings from her belt. “Catch,” she says, and tosses it underhand.

The mage reaches for it on reflex, and there is lightning in Hightown.

Hawke turns on her left heel, three quarters of a spin, until her hands find the wrapping just under the spearhead. She pushes back, and then yanks with most of her weight behind it, and the spearman loses his balance and obligingly lets go. Hawke passes the spear through her hands to the blunt end and spins it at throat level, clearing two meters between her and the four closest thralls. The open space is a boon; unlike Fenris, she left her breastplate home tonight, beside their swords. She likes to live on the edge now and then.

She turns one more slow circle, waiting until one of them is foolish enough to break away… there. A swordsman rushes her when she’s passed him by with the speartip, and Hawke blocks like the spear is a quarterstaff. The ash shaft breaks under his blade, but while he’s still on his followthrough, Hawke turns the shortened business end on him, just above his collar. He sags down over it, and now she has a sword.

A flash of blue-white light draws the other thralls’ attention. Hawke turns to find that Fenris has _two_ swords. It’s a good look for him, though the steel is no better than what can be purchased in the Lowtown market. They’ll have to spar like this sometime.

The rain cuts through a cloud of smoke forming over his shoulder. Hawke opens her mouth to warn him, but Fenris has already reversed his grip. He stabs behind him, and the thrall assassin dies before she can complete her attack.

Hawke puts her heel down on the curve of a fallen shield. It springs up into her waiting hand, shedding rain. She buckles the straps, and shakes the wet hair off her face. “Shit,” says one of the thralls, when they see the stripe across her nose. Too late now. She strikes the shield with the flat of her blade.

An axewoman comes at her, swinging wide, more resigned than courageous. Hawke catches the inside curve of the blade on her shield edge and wrests it wider still, sliding her sword between the woman’s ribs.

The last armed thrall makes ready to attack, but he chokes and stumbles mid-stride. His eyes and nose seep blood--it flows to the cobblestones, against the flow of rain, to pool at the mage’s feet. The thrall gasps on the ground until his eyes dim. A luminous orb forms between the mage’s hands.

Fenris’s markings are fully lit now, but Hawke moves first, a proper charge, arcing her shield when she’s in range. The mage staggers back, spell abandoned, and Fenris steps in to complete their public service for the evening by removing her heart.

As the mage drops to her knees, Hawke flicks blood and rain from her sword, and turns to the last thrall. His hands are slack at his sides.

Hawke points with the sword. “Viscount’s Keep is that way. You’ll be much safer there.”

Slowly, as if waking, he nods. “Th… thank you.” He skirts the ring of corpses, but hesitates by the mage, then stoops down. “Here,” he says, holding her coinpurse up by the strings.

She doesn’t bother to hide her amusement as she takes the purse back. The thrall walks, quickly, toward the Keep.

Hawke turns to Fenris. He’s no longer glowing, but his teeth flash, and beneath his dripping hair his eyes ask if there’s anything else she wants here.

She drops the cheap sword and unbuckles the cheap shield. _Just one thing_.

They go home. In the vestibule waits a stack of dry clothes and a very excited Mabari. “He was whining fit to wake the neighbors,” says Orana from the doorway. Bodahn is beside her with an old axe. Sandal can sleep through anything.

“He would,” Hawke says fondly. She presses her cheek between Max’s perked ears and chafes his sides. “Sorry, boy. We killed them all.” Max huffs and goes to the main room to curl up before the fire.

“Was there trouble?” Bodahn asks.

“Not at all,” Fenris says, and it’s a credit to how settled they all are with each other that Bodahn and Orana accept this with nods rather than confusion. They retire for the night.

Hawke and Fenris change in the vestibule so as not to drip everywhere, leaving their sodden things on the benches. Upstairs Hawke pumps water into the sunken tub and adds salts while the water lazes to boil. Just as it’s time to pour, Fenris carries in the remnants of supper: half a loaf of bread, the cold roast Bodahn favors, hard cheese, wine from the study, and honey cakes. Hawke pulls the kettle crane away from the hearth and over the tub, and upends it. The bath steams.

By the time she gets undressed again, Fenris is already stepping down into the water. It’s a generous tub but he does his best to fill it, arms and legs splayed. There isn’t any one space left that’s big enough for her to sit. He meets her gaze once, rests his head back against the slanted side, closes his eyes, and exhales through his nose.

Well. Hawke is adaptable.

She sits on the warming tile of the tub’s edge, the fire at her back, Fenris to her right and the platter of food to her left, her feet in the near-scalding water by his hips. As she considers him she chews a fortifying mouthful of the roast. He’s beautiful in the firelight… or any light, or rain, or his own light. Her desire is always present when she looks at him, but stronger now with her blood up after the fight. It ripples outward from a heart that is, in all ways but the physical, entirely in his hand.

Hawke picks up a honey cake, because life is short and they are both of them through with delaying good things, and passes the little finger of that hand across Fenris’s lower lip, and he--trusting--opens his mouth. “Mmm,” he rumbles around the bite of cake. The water eddies at his throat.

Smiling, Hawke finishes the cake. When she dips carefully down, knees on either side of Fenris just the way he strategized, the water rises to her ribs. She warms her hands, then smoothes his still-wet hair back from his brow and works her fingers into it, against his scalp. His face relaxes; his eyelids flutter. As she moves to the back of his head, Hawke lets her palms skim his ears.

For a moment Fenris forgets to breathe. But he doesn’t open his eyes, which is an awful shame because the view is so very fine just now. Hawke leaves one hand in the silver silk of his hair, and with the other she thumbs his earlobe, strokes gently upward. His next breath is ragged. Hawke leans forward and puts her teeth to his other ear.

Fenris curses against her shoulder, and Hawke laughs. As she shifts off her sore knees she brushes against him and finds that she’s had an effect.

She is still settling into a crouch when his eyes open. There’s heat in them, and a challenge accepted. Retaliation is swift: he grasps her hips and steers her, and Hawke, startled, clutches his shoulders. His shaft presses flat to her cunt, and the ache to have him in her would be overpowering if it weren’t for the hot water. Tiny waves lap at the sides of the tub.

He lets go with one hand and runs his knuckle just above where they meet. Hawke holds his gaze, grinds her hips once. Yes, she’s more than ready. Fenris needs no further encouragement. He adjusts himself and she meets him, slides down.

When he is as far inside her as they can get, Hawke angles forward and Fenris bends his legs and she sets her head against the pale tracery on his chest. His hands follow her spine. They stay that way for several breaths, and then Fenris, restless now, moves his palms to her thighs and over her rear, and Hawke sits up again, smiling, and clenches around him. Fenris’s expression tightens with the effort of control, but he won’t come before she does. He won’t allow it.

He presses his thumb, hotter even than the water, north of where he is in her, his aim impeccable. Hawke locks up again, involuntary this time, hips hitching. His grin is a fleeting thing before he returns to fierce concentration and the stillness of a statue. Hawke sets her jaw. Fine then. She’ll move.

Between his hand and his cock she has precious little room, but it doesn’t take much. The sweet burn of it, aided by the water, compounds until she’s gasping. Fenris runs his free hand up between her breasts. He has only to touch her throat before she shudders quite apart.

Her vision clears presently, and he is watching her with satisfaction. Not _enough_ satisfaction. Hawke is suddenly bone-weary, but she finds the strength to move again, and after no coaxing at all he takes over. The rhythm of his hips rolling sends water over the edges of the tub. Hawke goes to her knees once more, bracing herself, and fixes her lips to the tip of his ear. Fenris groans, and Hawke sits back in time to watch his eyes lose focus. The water glows softly.

When he comes back to her, his face dazed and open, she presses her palm to his cheek, and he pulls her to lay atop him. His lips are soft against hers. She feels his steady heartbeat, feels hers complement it.

There is, at least until the water cools, nowhere else to be. There is nothing to be said. Any words she might speak would be a drop in a depthless sea of love. Hawke opens her eyes, and Fenris opens his, and they understand each other.


End file.
